


Swamp Blues

by nahemaraxe (zephyrina)



Series: Archunters Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Drugs, Hunter Gabriel, Hunter Lucifer, Hurt Lucifer, Painkillers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyrina/pseuds/nahemaraxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Lucifer fucks everything up in one go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swamp Blues

It’s a stupid idea. It’s such a stupid idea he’d never go through with it if he were _(a little less drunk, a little more centered, a little more himself)_. If it were early morning. If he didn’t have swamp woman guts sticking to his clothes, if his left knee didn’t take yet another beating. If the pack of cigarettes he bought that afternoon wasn’t already empty and the icepack he strapped to his knee did anything to reduce the swelling.

If he were anywhere but there.

If.

It’s laughable, really. He’s a grown man who hunts monsters for a living, and still he’s a pathetic asshole. No wonder people don’t want him around. No wonder—

_Don’t go there._

Lucifer’s hands shake as he gropes around the table. Pills, a couple joints, cans of the cheap shit they pass as beer around these parts, everything is laid out in front of him. There must be a condom in his pockets too, even if sex stopped being a priority long ago. Getting it up doesn’t really mix with the kind of painkillers he’s taking, apparently.

_Side effects may include—_

The doc who fixed his knee that first time - _before_ , when his brothers still gave a shit - recited to him the whole spiel about side effects and risks of addiction. Back then, he shrugged it off. Now - _after_ , when loneliness hurts way more than a stupid anterior cruciate - it comes to mind whenever he looks at his meds.

_—and this is not an exhaustive list—_

He reaches over, grabs the bottle. Inside, the pills rattle.

_—nausea, diarrhea, rashes—_

Nausea, yes, he gets plenty. Problem is, he doesn’t know if it’s because of them or because of the clusterfuck that’s his life. Maybe both are to blame.

_—nervousness—_

He unscrews the lid and drops some in his palm. One or two end on the table, rolling toward the far end. That’s where he moved the phone earlier on, an old relic that only works when it feels like it. On the first day, the landlady apologized about it ( _‘I’ll get it replaced soon. You can come downstairs if you need to call someone,’_ she said, and he smiled and said, _‘sure’_ and meant, _‘don’t got nobody to call’_ ). Lucifer ignored it for the entire week it took him to find and gank the swamp woman, but now that the hunt is wrapped up, he keeps it in his peripheral vision.

“C’mon, ring,” he says. “Ring, bitch.”

It remains silent, and he tosses the pills into his mouth. The couple that fell off are still there, stark white against the black formica top. A few inches from the phone, which is black too.

He watches his arm flex toward (the pills, the phone), and that’s where stupid ideas are, but—

_—headache, depression—_

His mouth is dry. He snatches the receiver from its cradle and punches in the first number he’s memorized.

+

_‘Double G’s residence, we’re out,’_ Gabriel says. His recorded voice grates on Lucifer’s ears. _‘Leave a message.’_

He never left anything before, not even a greeting. He always listened and hung up, listened and hung up.

This time he listens _(to his brother, to the doc listing off drowsiness and insomnia)_ and just. Snaps.

“Fuck you,” he grounds out. His free hand finds the table corner and clutches at it, until the edge drives into his palm. “Fuck you, you selfish piece of shit. You think— ah, you think you made a big fucking statement with this— this stunt, this runaway thing you’ve got going, uh?” 

Lucifer pauses to tuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He doesn’t want to let go of the table, but he needs a drink or twenty to go on. “Well, guess what?” he asks as he grabs a can, opens it. “Nobody cares. We— I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you’re around or not. I don’t.”

He takes a swig. It’s just beer, and it still burns his throat. Pathetic. 

“At least it’s quiet now. I get some goddamn peace and I don’t have to put up with your whiny bitch act anymore. Christ, I’m so— no more watching your back and playing chaffeur and trying and trying and— and always coming up short. Always.”

Now his eyes are burning too. Lucifer sneers.

“Fucking stupid Luce’s not good enough, never was, never gonna be, and you just— fuck you, Gabriel.” 

Another swig. It almost makes him choke, and he breathes in, out. In again, and his breath catches; it comes out as a sob. 

“Don’t come back. Don’t or I’ll shoot you.”

The answering machine clicks then, leaving him with only the dial tone for company. It reminds him of a heart monitor flatlining.

+

_—dizziness—_

Time passes without him. At some point, the landlady bangs at his door and once she’s inside, she makes him coffee and gives him an icepack that’s meant for his face rather than his knee. She’s kind and understanding, she is, but most of all she doesn’t pry, and he’s sorry he never bothered to learn her name. For a moment he wonders about offering her a quickie, but his 

_(—low libido—)_

sex drive is on vacation and there’s no cool way to tell her he’d go down on her if she was into it, so he keeps his mouth shut. Gets his fix. Sips his coffee. Holds the icepack to his eye, rubs his knee (it’s stiff and swollen and it hurts like a motherfucker). Listens to her puttering around the kitchenette.

It’s only when his eyes fall on the phone that it hits him. The phone’s back in its original spot, next to the windowsill. Lucifer doesn’t remember moving it - or sweeping the table clean, or going out and getting into a fistfight, or - but it feels like that box of plastic and circuits is as dangerous as a loaded gun.

Two days, the landlady says when he asks. She didn’t see him getting out for two whole days, that’s why she grew worried.

_Two days_ , and Lucifer doesn’t trust his voice. He nods and tries his best to keep his hands steady, his breathing even, but what he did (what he said to Gabriel, to Gabriel of all people) is coming back. Bits and pieces, and even those are enough for him to know that he fucked up his relationship with yet another brother.

A laughter bubbles up, hysterical and crazy. He’s too _tiredwornoutterrified_ to hold it back.

\+ 

_Adverse effects may include bleeding into the stomach and guts-_

Luce shakes. He punches in the number and starts talking right away.

“—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I never… I didn’t mean it, I swear I didn’t, I was drunk and angry and high and please— I miss you, I just want you back, Gabriel, _please_ —”

_‘The number you’ve reached has been disconnected and is no longer available.’_

He should have expected it, but it’s a sucker punch all the same. He drops the receiver on its cradle, his head in his hands. The doc’s voice fills his ears once more,

_—higher risk of heart attacks._

and Lucifer screams.

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, while I was supposed to be doing something else, this happened. Thanks to wordssometimesfail for looking this over <3


End file.
